Prologue
I remember the smell of sea salt on my skin and the rolling tumble of the surf. I remember the brilliance of a sun that popped the colors of our towels, boogie boards, and bikinis. I remember my sisters’ impatient hands pulling me toward the waves, my mother’s appreciative laughter, my father’s guarded eyes.
I remember burying body parts until an arm or a leg spewed grand eruptions of sand. I remember moon jellyfish and sea glass and wrack-line seaweed that hid the tiniest perfect spiral whelks. I remember a bonfire on the beach, the smell of singed hot dogs and salty chips, the glow of embers as the sky purpled from east to west over Block Island Sound.
I remember fog, lots and lots of fog—and, cutting through it, the crescendoing growl of a motor when my father’s boat left the breakwater. I remember its ghosted image fragmenting bit by bit, like the world we had known, until it was gone. I remember the sound of a gun, at least, I think I did, but it may have been fireworks in Westerly or the slap of a screen door on our porch.
I remember so much. But it is never enough. Nor is it the same as what the others recall.
Chapter 1
Every memory is real, but not all are based on fact. Time, forgetfulness, emotional need—any of these things can chip away at memory. But what if a memory is wrong from the start? What if what you think you saw, isn’t what was there at all?
This is why I love my camera. It is never wrong. It captures facts and stores them. This frees me to live in the moment and move on to the next with the knowledge that the first is preserved. Since coming to New York, I’ve documented snowstorms and floods. I’ve taken pictures of strangers and friends, the streets where I walk, the markets where I shop. I even photographed my way through childbirth—well, until the very end, when my doctor banished my Nikon from the birthing bed. And recording my daughter’s life? I have thousands of photos of Joy. On the first day of school each year, we look back at what she wore on the first day of school the year before and the year before that. Inevitably we’ve forgotten. But there it is in vivid detail.
That isn’t to say detail can’t be fudged. I do this every day, photographing real estate in a way that shows a home to potential buyers as something bigger, brighter, more alluring. Angles, lenses, creative lighting—these are the stock of my trade. Deceptive, perhaps. But much of marketing is.
Right now, though, after spending my working day photographing a Tribeca condo from every imaginable angle in the shifting city light, I’m playing at home. It’s just past nine at night. The skyline isn’t fully dark, not this close to the longest day of the year, but the air is heavy and moist, as early June in New York can be, turning what might have been a purple sunset into elongated smudges of gray. Fog is on the move, enfolding my building like a hug from behind, before slipping on past. As I watch, it blankets the Hudson and mists around Fort Lee on the far bank, before drifting north to the George Washington Bridge like just another commuter heading home.
My condo is on the fortieth floor overlooking Riverside Drive. I paid more for it than I should have, but a river view was a must. I’ve always needed open space, not a lot, just enough. As long as I have that, I can breathe.
Swiveling the head of my tripod lower, I focus on the steady stream of traffic, which grows more vibrant with the deepening dusk. I’ve taken this same shot hundreds of times—maybe thousands—but it’s never the same twice. Like the tide leaving ripples on sand, I think as I wait, remote in hand, for the right second.
Photography has taught me how to wait. It has also taught me how to focus on that single subject and ignore everything else. This doesn’t come naturally to me. As the middle of three children, I was born with peripheral vision—as in, an acute awareness of my sisters above and below, my parents, our home and friends, and my precarious place in it all. Limiting myself to one scene at a time, as my camera does, has been huge.
The fog thickens on the street below. I wait until diffused headlights and taillights reappear, wait again when I hear a siren, then follow the blue strobe through the shift of vehicles. When I’m content, I turn north, wait for the best mix of fog, steel towers, and double-tiered lights, then shoot again.
“What’s the bridge doing?” Joy asks from the far end of the sofa, and I smile. She would know what the Nikon and I see. We’re connected that way, my thirteen-year-old daughter and I. And this is a game we often play.
“Floating. I can’t see its legs.” Leaving the bridge, I find her reflection in the glass. With the rest of the lights off, her tiny book light is little more than a faint glow on the pink baby dolls that were her new favorites from the vintage store in the Village. But that glow isn’t as warm as it would have been reflecting off paper.
Suspicious, I slide in beside her, angled to see her book. She starts to close it, makes a small sound, and stops. She knows that I’ve already seen what she was trying to hide, that her book light is clamped to the edge of Great Expectations but that tucked inside the bigger book is her Kindle. Close up now, I see page forty-four of Garth Stein’s The Art of Racing in the Rain.
“But, but, but,” I stutter, tipping my face up to see her, “this was on our us reading list. We were supposed to read it together.” Read it aloud, actually. When Joy was little, I always read aloud with her tucked up close, and somehow I just never stopped. The books have changed, and the older she gets, the more challenged I am to make my voice fit different characters. I’d been looking forward to being a dog.
“Well, I couldn’t not read the first page, and then I had to read the second,” she reasons. “Isn’t that what you always say, that if you want to keep reading, it’s the sign of a good book? Olivia Mattson says this one’s dumb, like who wants to know what a dog thinks, but I’m not sure how she knows anything about it, because her totally self-absorbed mother doesn’t read—”
“Joy.”
“It’s true. Her mother makes lots of money and can afford to buy any book she wants—can afford to buy the bookstore—and she doesn’t read? And anyway, Olivia has the mind of a squirrel, and squirrels are afraid of dogs. Besides, when Olivia doesn’t like something, I do, and here was this book, just sitting in my Kindle library? I was practically crying on page three. You know what happens?”
She isn’t really asking. She knows I know, but letting sentences end in the air started along with her period. Even beyond spoilers on Goodreads and the ardor of my friend Chrissie, there was the teary conversation about old dogs that we overheard at the Best Friends’ Animal Society in Soho.
“It’s good, Mom,” she confides. “Omigod. It’s sooo good.”
I want to talk about respecting schoolmates. But she happens to be right about Olivia Mattson’s mother, who spent the better part of fifteen minutes at a recent back-to-school night lecturing me on how to build my business into something big, how to make my brand the brand for real estate photography in Manhattan, which is the last thing I want, since it would mean hiring regular staff, relying on paid ads over word of mouth, and spending less time with Joy.
But that’s all beside the point. “What about Great Expectations?” I ask. “Your final is next week.”